


well, this is a first

by selfyourlove



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Episode: s04e18 That's Entertainment, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfyourlove/pseuds/selfyourlove
Summary: Oswald and Jim meet in secret at the GCPD. [4x18]





	well, this is a first

**Author's Note:**

> listen. if Harvey hadn't interrupted Jim and Oswald's super secret sexual tension stand-off, something like this would've happened. 
> 
> **quick warning: there’s a brief moment when a hand is put over someone’s mouth to keep them quiet. please be aware if that’s a trigger for you.

“I’m out back. Come alone.”

It’s only after he’s closed his phone that Oswald realizes what he just said. And the way that he said it. And what a news source like the Gotham Gazette could do with that quote, in this context, delivered from the former mayor to the captain of the GCPD.

He lets out a frustrated growl, shifting his focus to the problem at hand: Jerome Valeska.

Shivering slightly at a brisk gust of wind, Oswald sneaks in through the back entrance. The basement hallway of the police station is quiet as usual, so he limps to the door he knows Jim will be coming through and raps on the glass. After several knocks, the door swings open. He can’t get a read on Jim’s face because the captain turns away before his hand leaves the doorknob.

“Well, this is a first,” Jim remarks, putting his hands on his hips. Oswald did _not_ risk coming here so that Jim Gordon could give him attitude.

“Are you doing anything about Jerome?”

“We’re looking for him,” the cop shoots back, defensive as always about the credibility of his department. “Do you know where he is?”

“And if I did, do you really think I would just tell you?” He almost wants to laugh. “Have you march in there, guns blazing?” Images pass through his head, of Jim nearly leaving him to die to break Falcone out of the hospital. Jim putting Martin in danger to capture the Pyg. Jim killing Fish when she and Oswald were finally partners.

Deep breath. “He needs to be stopped.”

Like so many times before, Oswald warns Jim of what’s to come, of the plans to plunge their city into an even deeper darkness. And of course, the captain is impatient and rude and wears a sour expression as if occupying the same space as the Penguin causes him physical pain.

After several unsatisfactory answers, Jim presses in far too close and snarls, “Why did you come here if you’re not going to help me?”

And their antagonistic closeness is so familiar, the line between dark and light almost nonexistent, that Oswald’s veneer begins to crack.

“He scares the living hell out of me, okay!?”

Jim’s eyebrows pinch together at that, confusion and concern playing on his face. Oswald is sure his own face is giving all his secrets away, just like it always does when Jim Gordon looks at him like that.

Like he’s back on that pier three years ago, walking to his death, with a newly destroyed leg and a tiny flicker of hope that he’ll get to see another day.

Like his life is depending on a pair of blue eyes that see right through him.

The vulnerability threatens to choke him (the feeling, both literal and figurative, is not a new one) so he barrels on. He isn’t really aware of what he’s saying until Jim interrupts, accusing him of being jealous of Jerome. _That_ he won’t stand for.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Oswald spits. “He is a maniac — an anarchist. He is not interested in money or power.” Jim eyes him like he doesn’t buy it. For someone who isn’t an imbecile, he sure is doing a great impression of one. He _knows_ Oswald. How can he think that he’s anything like that ginger monster? “And I am an honest criminal, Jim!”

The captain scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m a lying cop.”

Both men pause, gazes locked. Oswald shrugs, raises his eyebrows in offering.

“I think both of those descriptions are rather fitting, Jim. Don’t you?”

He remembers Jim, steadfast and refusing to budge, as Oswald pleaded with him to save him from the tortures of Arkham and Hugo Strange. The cold look in his eyes as he shot Theo Galavan point blank. He can tell Jim is recalling similar memories by the set of his jaw.

“Alright,” Jim says roughly with a nod. “Prove it.”

Oswald blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Prove it,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “Tell me something honest.”

There’s a ringing in Oswald’s ears, a cacophony of longing and surrender hidden in his heartbeat, blood rushing to his face and core.

“I-I don’t—what—” he stutters out, taking a step back when he feels the urge to do the opposite, his cane slipping and clattering to the floor.

“I’ll start,” Jim whispers, his voice too low and throaty and perfect, his icy eyes somehow heated, his body trapping them together as Oswald backs up against the wall.

“Jim—please—” he groans, not understanding, because his body seems to sense something that could never happen, not here and now, not to him, and not with _James Gordon_ —

“Oswald.” He whimpers at the feel of Jim’s breath surrounding his name; covers his mouth with his hand to stifle the sound too late.

The taller man hovers on the edge of Oswald’s personal space, as if unsure whether he’d be welcome inside.

“This is…” he starts, gaze flickering helplessly between Oswald’s eyes before dropping to some fixed point on his chest. “Difficult. For me.”

Oswald’s breath shudders, an earthquake destroying the stillness between them. “W-What is?” he asks, voice muffled behind his own fingers.

Jim smiles self-deprecatingly, looking back up beneath golden eyelashes. “Being honest, believe it or not.”

He wraps his fingers around Oswald’s wrist, touch feather-light, to gently drag his hand away from his face.

“...I believe it,” Oswald replies, eyes wide.

They stand there, inches apart, Jim holding Oswald’s wrist like it’s something they’ve always done. Oswald thinks of every time they shook hands, how those touches kept him warm for days after, how Jim gripped just tight enough to mean it but not enough to hurt him, how they always seemed to communicate what they failed to say out loud.

Jim flinches as if he means to pull away, so Oswald takes the lead.

“I’ve always wanted—” _Too forward, too revealing, too soon_ _—_ “Th-That is, I’ve never—” _Jim does NOT need to know that_ _—_ “This is—”

There’s little that Oswald hates more than feeling out of his depth. He huffs in frustration, causing his spiked hair to blow in the breeze.

And Jim, with all his usual tact, snorts out a _laugh_.

Oswald breathes hard through his nose. “I’m glad you find this so _amusing_ , Captain.”

Jim rubs his thumb absently across the back of Oswald’s hand, and it chips away at his anger. He expects an apology when Jim opens his mouth.

“I’d actually say I find you _adorable_.”

Everything else falls away, leaving Oswald adrift, burning with humiliation and fighting back tears because he thought they were actually getting somewhere, that Jim could actually see more in him than a tiny broken bird, but now he needs to get out, get away, get _over_ this man who’s caused him nothing but pain.

He wrenches his arm out of the captain’s grip, prepared to push him away with all of his strength, but Jim boxes him in automatically.

“Hey hey hey—hold on—”

“Let me _go,_ Jim!” he bites out, continuing to struggle, absolutely _not_ going to give Jim the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

“Oswald, please, I need you to talk to me,” comes the response, too calm and easy and somehow still perfect—

“ _Go to hell!_ ” he screeches, ready to kick his way out—

A large, warm hand covers his mouth. It shocks him into stillness, searching Jim’s eyes for an explanation.

“I’m sorry, but I was worried someone would hear us,” Jim murmurs. “I know I upset you, Oswald; I want to understand why.”

The Penguin feels the fight drain out of him. Rather than infuriating him, the hand over his mouth acts as an anchor, grounding him in the moment. It feels safe and right and needed. He becomes aware that Jim’s other hand is planted on the wall next to his head. And then there’s wetness down his cheek.

“Oswald,” Jim breathes, moving to cup his face and wipe the tear away with his thumb.

“ _That’s_ what’s wrong,” Oswald croaks, and it sounds pathetic even to his ears. “You, treating me like I’m…” The words aren’t even on the tip of his tongue, they’re buried somewhere at the base of his throat, all of his attention consumed by the fingers caressing his face _for the first time_.

Jim nods slowly. “Because I called you adorable?” he guesses.

“Because I wanted to be something more!”

He clenches his jaw, shutting his eyes against more angry tears. Jim removes his hand from his cheek, but doesn’t step away. Oswald refuses to look until he’s gone. And once Jim realizes what he really meant, he’ll be gone in an instant.

The moments tick by, his words stretched taut between them. _Just leave, Jim_ , he thinks. They can pretend this whole conversation never happened.

More physical contact is the last thing he’s expecting, so when it comes at his hip, his eyes fly open with a sharp gasp.

“You are,” Jim rasps, eyes clear and determined.

Oswald doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, doesn’t know why he’s touching him; all he can do is shake his head frantically.

“You _are_ more,” Jim clarifies, ducking a bit so he’s at eye level. He’s softening around the edges; the slight curve to his lips, the steady hand cradling his hip. Gentle in a way Oswald’s rarely seen him—and never before directed _at_ him.

“Oswald,” he says again, “can I show you?”

Pressed together so close, Oswald’s sure Jim can feel his heart fluttering madly, his bad leg trembling with the strain of keeping him upright, his body aching to lean into his touch. At those simple words, though, he considers the possibility that Jim isn’t disgusted by his reactions. That Jim might actually _want_ him.

“Y-Yes.”

Oswald clamps his eyes shut, bracing himself. The hand on his hip strokes comfortingly. A broken cry stumbles past his lips. Tears fill his eyes again with shame following close behind.

“Hey.”

The fingers continue to soothe at his side, and Jim moves his other hand, fingertips grazing raven hair.

Oswald summons the most intense glare he can muster given his current state. “I am not… _fragile_ , Jim,” he says, his fight-or-flight response’s last ditch effort to protect him from danger.

“I know,” Jim agrees softly. “But… it’s okay if you want to be, just for a little while.”

Yes. With a pang, Oswald remembers his desire to be vulnerable with Edward—a deep need that the mayor of Gotham City would never dare reveal. His mother was the only person who ever took care of him, but she rarely brought him true solace because he couldn’t be honest with her. He’s known Jim since he was an umbrella boy, nothing more than a snitch doomed to die in the river, and it’s because of Jim that Oswald Cobblepot lived to become the Penguin.

Can they shed their identities of police captain and king of the underworld, paragons of dark and light, to find each other somewhere in the space between?

“ _Yes_ ,” Oswald chokes out a second time.

Jim moves in slow motion, carding his fingers through black hair, lighting up Oswald’s nerve endings. He curls his hand more fully around the other’s hip, overwhelming in his body heat, and blue eyes lock with green until Jim lowers his eyelids and their lips meet.

Soft lips press against his, already thrilling without demanding anything more. He tries to memorize every feature in Jim’s face while he’s not looking—the blond hair falling across his forehead, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the stubble barely there on his jaw. Oswald fumbles to return his first kiss, his eyes falling closed as he finally feels it working.

He lets out a gasp when the tip of Jim’s tongue slides across his lower lip. Jim tightens his grip in his hair, reminding Oswald that he has two hands he could be using. He lets his mouth follow his partner’s lead, gradually raising his hands to hover at his sides. Where do they go? Where is he allowed to touch?

“Here,” Jim whispers, reading his mind. He untangles his fingers from his hair, instead covering Oswald’s hand with his own and bringing it to his chest. “Take your time.”

Rather than continue their kiss, Jim pauses just before their mouths come together. Oswald’s long nose presses into his cheek. He stands as still as possible, desire and leg pain warring to make him twitch, so that he doesn’t accidentally poke his new lover in the eye.

He furrows his brow as he focuses on his movements. Scratches his fingernails against Jim’s cotton shirt before clutching the fabric. Jim squeezes his hip, making Oswald smirk in satisfaction. It spurs him on to weave his other arm around Jim, rubbing at the small of his back.

When Jim hums, the sound travels across the connection of their bodies, tingling at Oswald’s lips and rumbling against his palms. The vibrations shoot straight to his cock, and he suddenly realizes he’s hard, probably has been since Jim uttered his name like he was savoring the taste of it in his mouth.

“Oh,” is all he can think to say. Is it strange for him to be aroused so soon? How will Jim respond?

...Does Jim have an erection too?

The thought makes him dizzy. Jim gives him a look so lustful it should be illegal before he starts mouthing along Oswald’s jaw.

Jim’s trail of kisses coaxes a deep moan out of him, no longer thinking or worrying or caring about anything other than this experience, the first of its kind and hopefully not the last.

He feels Jim’s fingers toying with the top button on his shirt. After sucking a kiss to the base of Oswald’s pale throat, he asks, “Is this okay?”

“That would be an understatement,” Oswald returns, leaning his head against the wall with a pleased sigh. Jim chuckles lightly, eyes twinkling, and unbuttons Oswald’s shirt down to his sternum.

Oswald grabs at any part of Jim he can reach as the taller man licks and bites from his neck to his collarbone. It vaguely occurs to him that he should try to keep quiet, but he can’t help the moans of “ _oh_ ” and “ _Jim_ ” and “ _yes_ ” streaming from his mouth. Especially not when Jim nibbles at his earlobe and says in a gravelly voice, “You look so good like this.”

The praise makes him mewl, his hips pushing forward in an unconscious effort to relieve the pressure on his groin. Jim makes his way back to Oswald’s mouth, the kiss far more heated than before. Then he slides his hand down to Oswald’s ass, gripping tightly and using the leverage to grind their crotches together.

Oswald realizes many things at once. For one thing, Jim is just as hard as he is. For another, he is on the verge of tears yet again, not from anger or embarrassment, but pleasure—filling him up, hot and heavy, between his legs and between his ribs. Lastly, and most irritating, is that this position makes the strain on his bad leg impossible to ignore any longer.

He winces against Jim’s lips, and Jim must feel it because he pulls away immediately. “Too fast? Sorry, we don’t have to—”

“James Gordon, you are honestly the _biggest idiot I’ve ever met_.”

The blond looks taken aback at that, though he’s quite cute with his mouth hanging open.

Oswald sighs, both exasperated and endeared. “My leg,” he explains, gesturing to the culprit jerkily.

After a few agonizing seconds, Jim snaps out of it, glancing around the room. “Will it hurt if I lift you up for a second?”

That inspires an erotic image in Oswald’s mind—one of Jim using his well-hidden strength to hold him up as he makes love to him against the wall. He blushes, his pants impossibly tight, and attempts to speak. “I… n-no, that should be fine.”

Jim flashes a predatory smile, one that might be unnerving if not for the fondness in his eyes. He then grips the backs of Oswald’s thighs and hoists him up.

Oswald yelps and hooks his arms around Jim’s neck. He tries to do the same with his legs around Jim’s waist, but the angle is too awkward for his right ankle.

“I got you,” Jim assures him.

“I know,” Oswald replies in a voice so small he can’t tell if Jim even hears him.

They maintain eye contact as Jim maneuvers their bodies toward his destination. Oswald is secretly thrilled to look down into those eyes, relishing this rare chance to be above Jim in any way. Especially when Jim’s looking at him like he’s desirable, like he’s _beautiful_ —like he’s all that matters.

Something bumps against his lower back—a long metal table, he notes, as Jim sets him down upon it. Oswald is thankful for the moment of reprieve, an ebbing before the tide could threaten to take him under.

“I _do_ appreciate your… checking in,” he confesses. “This is... rather a big deal.”

Jim’s eyes widen slightly. _Shit_.

“F-For me, of course,” Oswald backpedals sloppily. He lets out his token nervous laugh, always his go-to move with Fish or Falcone or Maroni—hell, he’s even used it on Jim before— “Don’t worry yourself, I don’t harbor any fantasies of us—ah—o-of you and I—of this being more than—”

“Oswald.”

_Again_. That low voice, careful and clear. When he doesn’t respond, Jim places his hands on Oswald’s thighs, just enough contact to get his attention.

“Is this your first time?”

He’s gentle about it, but to Oswald it doesn’t feel like a question. He doesn’t even have enough fight left in him to deny it.

Another “yes” is drawn from his mouth. Small and shaky.

“Wow,” Jim says under his breath. Oswald hangs his head, face burning, and then Jim starts rambling. “No, it’s just—that’s what I was surprised about. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I always assumed that you and—that you had before, that’s all. Not that I thought about you—about it a lot, because—well, I did, but—”

Oswald lets him flounder until Jim’s blush gets darker than his own. Adrenaline pumps through his system, and all he can do is laugh. Giggle, really. Like a giddy child. Or a teenager, he supposes—is that when most people stumble through this?

He covers his mouth with both hands (remembering that they _are_ in the basement of the GCPD), Jim’s discomfort only adding to the humor of the situation. Oswald’s had his fair share of embarrassment in the past hour—Captain Gordon can afford to stew in it for a few more moments.

“So…” is what Jim chooses to open with, properly abashed, after clearing his throat and waiting for Oswald to get himself under control. “I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did!” Oswald agrees enthusiastically.

A shy smile makes its way back to Jim’s face—a smile that has no business looking so sexy.

“Do you still…” Jim swallows, squeezing Oswald’s thighs so briefly it doesn’t seem voluntary. “...want to…? With me?”

Even though he can’t match Jim in terms of previous encounters, Oswald feels a heady sense of power at being the one in charge of how far this goes. He could say yes or no or leave Jim aching without providing a definitive answer. In fact, it dawns on him that his inexperience directly informs his agency. Whether Jim is a gentleman or simply because it is the thing to do, he will defer to Oswald.

“Because,” Jim responds to the continued silence, “if you do, we can wait. Until we’re somewhere more… comfortable.” He looks down at the floor. “A bed, maybe.” To Oswald’s delight, Jim’s ears redden at his last few words.

He finds freedom in the open-ended question, enough to slide his hands to rest at Jim’s waist. When Jim covers one with his own, Oswald presses a kiss to his hairline. He can smell sweat and a trace of Jim’s shampoo, something sharp with the barest hint of citrus.

“That does sound ideal,” he admits. “Don’t you have a job that requires your attention?”

Jim cracks a smile. “Lunch break. Once a day Harvey gets thirty straight minutes away from me.”

Oswald’s stomach does a small flip.

“Well,” he ventures, trying not to stutter, “I wouldn’t want to cut into that time, Jim, you don’t eat enough as it is—”

“I’ve got granola bars in my locker.”

“That hardly constitutes a _meal_ , James—”

“I like it when you call me that.”

Oswald swallows. He can’t keep track of the script they’re following, if there even is one.

“Duly noted,” he nods, trying to smile with confidence.

Jim strokes his hand where it rests on his own waist. Then he brings it to his lips, looking right into Oswald’s eyes as he drops a kiss to his fingers.

“ _Jim_ ,” Oswald pleads, plunging back into his desire as if there had been no interruption. “I—can we—”

“It’s okay, Oswald,” Jim reassures him. “You can tell me what you want.”

The answer escapes from his mouth like it’s been waiting years to get out: “ _You_.”

Jim’s hand is at the back of his neck, pulling him in again. Oswald moans into his mouth and dares to tease his fingers along Jim’s waistband.

“Oh my god, _Oz_.”

“O-Oh!” he cries as the hypocorism slips from Jim’s lips as easy as water from a tap. A tingle runs down his spine, making his pelvis twitch forward. He’s never felt so out of control in his body—it’s maddening. And _intoxicating_.

“Yeah?” Jim leans back slightly to gauge his reaction.

“Yes, I-I—” He’s also never blushed this much in his _life_ (how do people _do_ this?)—he’s afraid he might set on fire with every new sensation. He can see the lust in Jim’s eyes, but there’s also something sweet and soft, like trust. _You can tell me what you want_. “I like that,” Oswald confirms in a reedy voice. “I—I _want_ that.”

Jim nods a few times, his hand traveling up Oswald’s thigh. “You want me to call you Oz?”

Oswald surges forward into another urgent kiss so that he doesn’t have time to whimper. “Yes,” he whispers, sliding one hand up to finally tangle in blond hair. “Please, James.”

“I’ve got you, Oz.” Jim’s hands seem to act independently, one twirling in his hair affectionately, the other skating closer and closer to Oswald’s clothed cock. It gets harder to keep their lips locked because Oswald keeps shuddering and gasping.

Jim’s fingers trail so slowly over the bulge in Oswald’s pants before stopping at the button of his fly. His hips thrust up again, almost knocking him off the table, but Jim moves impossibly closer to keep him balanced.

The detective ducks his head so that his words echo in Oswald’s ear. “Oswald… can I?”

“Yes,” he whines, scrabbling at Jim’s neck and back and ass and anything he can reach to eliminate the space between them.

Jim doesn’t tease him anymore. He opens his trousers to dip his hand inside, warm and strong as he pulls Oswald out through his silk boxers.

“ _F-Fuck,_ Jim,” he groans desperately. He’s touching Oswald in a way that no one ever has before, like his body is something to be cherished, like Jim wants nothing more than to help him experience this euphoria. He’s mortified to feel the sting of tears as Jim begins pumping his leaking cock.

“There’s—there’s something else I want,” he chokes out, shaking his head when Jim halts his ministrations. “N-No, keep going, but I—I want you to tell me what you thought about.”

Jim slows down, swirling his thumb to spread precum around the head. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“You want me to talk dirty to you, Ozzie?” he rumbles, his voice reaching an octave previously unknown to human ears.

Oswald nods his head, the motion enough to send a tear trailing down his cheek.

“I thought about what you would look like, naked and hard in my bed,” Jim murmurs. He kisses Oswald’s cheek, lapping up the saltiness with his tongue. Oswald can already feel the buzz of orgasm on the edge of his awareness.

“I thought about running my hands all over your thighs as I sucked your cock.” Oswald thrusts helplessly in Jim’s grip. Jim curls his free hand around the small of his back, holding the smaller man close to him. All Oswald can do is cling to his shirt and try not to come yet.

“I thought about… about slowly opening you up with my fingers before I fucked you.”

Oswald ruts in earnest. Hearing his own fantasy from Jim’s lips makes it impossible for him to hold back.

“ _Fuck_ , Jim! I’m so _close_ , I’m going to—ohhh, please, fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_ —”

Jim presses their foreheads together, making Oswald’s eyes go wide as he feels Jim’s labored breaths against his own mouth. They’re not kissing, this is a million times more intimate than kissing, he can’t look away from those eyes with pupils blown more black than blue—

“Yes, that’s it, so beautiful, please, let me see you, Ozzie—”

Oswald’s release surges through him, filling him up until he bursts. The GCPD could be exploding around them, Gotham could be burning to the ground, but Oswald isn’t aware of anything beyond Jim’s hand and Jim’s eyes and Jim’s voice and Jim, Jim, _Jim_.

Given his history, it would make sense for Oswald to be afraid of drowning, but right now he welcomes it. Wave after wave pulling him under. Pleasure pulsing endlessly.

Eventually, it does end. Oswald comes out of it, back into his body, where smiling comes easier than breathing. Jim is there, gently tucking him back into his boxers and refastening his pants with one hand. He wants to thank him, but speech feels out of his reach.

One of Jim’s hands rests on Oswald’s thigh while the other hangs in the air awkwardly. “That… was,” the captain of the GCPD states eloquently, and pride flickers into Oswald’s hazy afterglow. Jim clears his throat before snapping his gaze up, their light eyes locking—one pair sleepy and satisfied, the other wide and wild. “...the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

That pierces through the fog of Oswald’s orgasm enough for him to sit up straight. “Do you…” He licks his lips. Tries to be as brave as the man in front of him. “Do you want to come too, Jim?”

He feels the air around him shift as Jim inhales. “Yes,” he whispers. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Let me.”

Jim gives a tight nod. Oswald feels his face go pink as he reaches down to open Jim’s pants. His fingers are unsteady, partly from nerves and partly as an aftereffect of his climax.

Once the fly is undone, Oswald makes to palm Jim through his boxer briefs, but stops as a hand grabs his wrist.

“Wait,” Jim entreats him. He wonders what he did wrong, before Jim drops his own hand and strokes his cock in one swift motion.

The quiet collapses with Oswald’s gasp, and Jim’s groan, and the wet sound of Jim touching himself. Oswald wonders briefly when he had time to apply lubrication, unless—is it…?

“My come,” he breathes.

“Yes,” comes the strained response.

Oswald looks on in awe as Jim speeds up his hand. Soft squelches and the flap of fabric resound with gruff panting. He wraps his legs around Jim to pull him closer.

“Look at you,” he croons. Jim plants his free hand on the cold surface of the table. “Using my come to help you fuck your fist.”

“Oh my God. Ozzie.”

“I’m here, James.” Oswald brushes the blond hair out of his eyes, then rakes his nails against Jim’s scalp. That earns him a thrust of Jim’s hips, the heat of his hand rocking against the inside of Oswald’s thigh. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come inside you,” Jim blurts out, then looks petrified at what came out of his mouth.

“Yes, that sounds amazing,” Oswald hums easily, letting his free arm slip around Jim’s back so that he surrounds him with all of his limbs, his body a protective cloak against the outside world. Trying to cancel out Jim’s insecurities.

“I want that too,” he encourages. “Next—” _Please let there be a next time_. “Next time.”

“Unnh, I—” Jim shakes his head, his hand faltering on his cock.

“Jim, please, for me.” He tugs on his hair just enough to snap him out of whatever this is. “Jim, imagine me waiting on your bed, stretching my hole with my fingers to get myself ready for you.”

“ _Jesus, Oswald_.” Jim regains speed, pushing into Oswald’s touch like a cat.

“You feel so perfect wrapped up in me. Like our bodies were made for each other.”

“Yes—wanted you for so long—Oswald, I’m—”

“Fuck me, Jim, make me yours, I want to feel you come inside me—”

His breath is punched out of him when Jim finally lets go, his whole body driving forward in a syncopated rhythm. It’s silent but for a cut off “ _ah_ —” that Oswald fleetingly thinks could be the first sound of his own name.

He brushes a kiss to Jim’s eyebrow, bumping against him slightly as he quivers with aftershocks. The movement hitches Jim forward so that his forehead hits Oswald’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Oswald smiles when the other man clumsily starts to pull away.

“No apology necessary,” he shushes, putting his hand on Jim’s nape to guide him back.

Jim relents, his only objection in the form of a short chuckle.

They stay that way for a moment: Oswald on the table, his legs tucked gently around Jim; Jim leaning against him, pants still open, his softening penis and sticky mess somehow comforting against Oswald’s thigh. Maybe it’s the thought that Jim is either so relaxed that he hasn’t noticed, or so content that he doesn’t care.

“That feels nice,” Jim purrs after a little while.

“What does?” Oswald asks softly, grin widening at the pleased tone of Jim’s voice.

“You.” A blush warms Oswald’s cheeks for the first time in several minutes, contrasting with the sweat that’s cooled on his skin. “You—Your fingers. Hands. They’re—it’s nice.”

Jim must have had a powerful orgasm, Oswald muses proudly, to render him so incoherent. The thought is distracting enough that he doesn’t freeze at Jim’s comment. His fingers continue their unconscious massage, stroking his silky hair and tracing patterns across his back.

Another minute goes by. Oswald wouldn’t mind staying here for the rest of the day. He and Jim both deserve a bit of peace and quiet considering how hard they work all the time. But Jerome is still out there, planning to unleash his laughing gas throughout Gotham City, and they have to do their part in stopping him.

As he opens his mouth to speak, Jim’s cell phone rings. It’s almost a relief to be saved from stumbling through some kind of postcoital protocol.

“Damn it,” the detective sighs. Oswald takes that as his cue to caress Jim’s head and back one more time before they separate.

Jim uses one hand to get his phone out of his pocket and the other to hurriedly refasten his pants.

“Yeah?” The earpiece volume is loud enough that Oswald can make out Harvey Bullock's voice on the other line.

“Got it. I’ll be right there.” Jim looks at Oswald guiltily as he finishes his call.

“Good news, I hope?” There are many things Oswald is hoping, but this one feels easiest to voice.

“News, at least,” Jim shrugs. He tucks in his shirt and buckles his belt. “Jerome was spotted near Paisley Square.”

Oswald nods, mostly to himself because the other man is still fixing his clothes. He should do the same, but he can’t get down from the table with Jim in the way.

“Jim, may I get down?” he requests. He falls back on his manners, not knowing what else to do.

“Huh—?” Jim focuses on him again. “Oh, yeah—let me help you.”

Jim offers his hands. It reminds Oswald of a child being helped down from an examining table at a doctor’s visit. The comparison doesn’t bother him enough to keep him from accepting. To his surprise, Jim holds one of Oswald’s hands for balance and runs the other down his side, landing on his thigh as he gently sets him down on the floor. His support acts as a cushion to soften the blow the impact makes on Oswald’s bad leg.

His face is obnoxiously red _again_ as the taller man smiles tentatively and pecks him on the cheek. It strikes Oswald as a display of affection that might end a first date, rather than a mostly-clothed, semi-public first sexual experience in which both parties have to leave in their bodily fluid-stained clothes.

“Oh,” Jim pipes up. “Don’t forget—”

He takes a few steps and bends over, coming back to Oswald to hand him his retrieved cane.

“Thank you, Jim,” Oswald says softly, covering Jim’s hand with his own. He has no doubt his expression reveals that he’s thanking Jim for more than his cane.

Jim uses both hands to secure Oswald’s grip around the top of his cane, stroking with his thumb as he goes.

“I, ah—I’m guessing it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to show up there with me.”

Oswald sobers at that. He and Jim are already in enough danger; Jerome hearing of a new development in their relationship would only make things worse.

“We both have a job to do. But perhaps, after…” He hesitates, treading into unknown waters.

“I’ll call you,” Jim finishes. He says it like he’s sure and it’s easy and this thing growing between them has no potential obstacles. Oswald’s face breaks into a smile.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

That seems like as close to a “goodbye” as they’re going to get.

With a final squeeze of their hands and a murmured “alright,” the captain takes his leave.

“Jim!” Oswald blurts out before the man reaches the end of the hallway.

The taller man turns back around quickly. His clothes are neat enough to pass for Jim’s normal sense of style and care, but Oswald feels privileged to know better. Blond hair falls freely from its usually gelled confines. His shirt is rumpled from sweat and exertion. But there’s also a slant to his shoulders and stance that’s out of the ordinary—like some of his constant tension has been lifted. It’s that, more than anything, that inspires Oswald to set his cane on the table and shuffle forward until he has to tilt his chin up to look Jim in the eye.

When a moment goes by and Jim just looks at him expectantly, Oswald grabs him by the lapels and pulls him down into a kiss. Jim’s lips move against his instantly, seeking and finding each other over and over. Oswald does his best to be gentle while reassuring himself that they’ll be fine, Jim really means it, they’ll get through this, this won’t be the last time he gets to touch him like this.

Their pace slows naturally once Oswald’s initial passion has been met and given back in kind. The need so pressing just moments before settles into the back of his mind—still present, humming like electricity, but stable enough not to demand immediate attention.

“Be careful,” he says when they part, knowing that it’s in Jim’s nature to put the safety of others before his own. And he loves that about him. “Please.”

“You too, Oswald.” He can taste each of Jim’s breaths fluttering against his lips.

Then Jim frames his face with his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. Oswald inhales through his nose, shutting his eyes to keep from melting into the floor. When Jim gives him one last longing look and walks away, he forces himself to do the same in the opposite direction, picking up his cane as he goes.

No matter what Jerome has planned for him today, Oswald is confident that he’ll survive it. Because that’s what he does.

And because he’s expecting a phone call.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! Also let me know if there are any errors—there's nothing like being taken right out of a smutty scene because of a dang typo.
> 
> kudos/comments/bookmarks literally make my day <3
> 
> *whispers conspiratorially* This may or may not be my first ever published fanfic and I may or may not be freaking out with excitement and/or anxiety
> 
> come yell with me on twitter at @thesignofao3


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